


Behind the Throne

by intravenusann



Category: Motorcity
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly awful day, the Duke’s No. 2 threatens to quit. She’s had enough of this bullshit. But, then again, she knows he’d do anything to keep her. (Written for motorkink)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Throne

**Author's Note:**

> Written for motorkink: “Duke can be a smug and insufferable bastard. I want to see him get taken down off his high horse. Tied up, fucked, generally used. Dub-con is ok, but I would prefer to keep it from going non-con.” This is totally ENTHUSIASTIC, CONSENSUAL BDSM with boot-licking and face-sitting and then that “tied up, fucked, generally used” bit. But it’s also sweet and a bit silly at points.

The explosion has wrecked her hair, not to mention scorched this jacket and left her leg feeling scraped raw. Her right ring finger aches, but right now she can’t stand to see if she’s broken her nail. Chances are, she probably has.

Most days, work truly is a joy.

Today has not been most days.

“I’ve quit better jobs than this,” Babs says, crossing her arms over her chest and resolutely not checking her manicure.

“Aw, Babs, don’t say that,” the Duke replies. “You’re a treasure. I could never replace you. No one’s got your qualifications.”

Behind her Wayfarers, Babs rolls her eyes.

“Seriously, where am I going to find a designer-slash-chauffer-slash-choreographer-slash-master chef-slash-certified master of ceremony?” the Duke asks. “It’s not like they hand those out on every street corner.”

“I don’t know, boss,” Babs snaps back. “You can find a lot a girls who don’t care about respect on any street corner.”

“This is about respect? Babs, baby, I respect you, you’re my one and only, my No. 2.”

“Tell that to my manicure,” she says, sticking her wounded hand out at him and turning her face away.

His goatee brushes the back of her hand and, slowly, he presses kisses down the lines of her finger bones. Oh, yes, she knows her nail’s wrecked. The deep, bruise ache she feels when he kisses the tip of her finger proves it. She feels the warmth of his mouth surround her aching fingertip, the wetness of his tongue tracing out the nail and cuticle. Then his teeth catch on the broken edge of the nail and fresh pain shoots up the whole length of her arm.

Before she can think it through, she’s pulled her hand back and slapped him across the face. Above his shades, the Duke looks stunned, eyes wide and eyebrows comically raised.

“That hurt, ya big oaf,” she says, cradling her hand.

Finally she looks. The candy-apple red polish has flaked off in most places and, yes, it’s broken almost to the quick. Sucking in one deep breath, she rips the nail off and lets the blood well up and drip from her finger.

“Babs,” he says, sounding all broken up over it.

“It’ll grow back,” she says.

“Course it will, baby girl, don’t it always?” he asks, giving her his shiniest smile.

She frowns in return, lowering her wayfarers to glare at him. His smile falters and falls.

“Oh,” he says. “Babe.”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me,” she tells him. “I’ve had it. I quit.”

She turns on one sharp heel and starts to walk away, listening to the thud of the Duke hit the ground on his knees. He wails, he keens, he caterwauls. Finally, she hears him shuffling forward, begging and pleading in plain English for her to change her mind.

Fine, she thinks, let him crawl if it makes him feel better.

Her finger stops dripping blood on the red carpeting, which is good. A little less she’ll have to get cleaned.

Oh, she couldn’t quit. There’s easier jobs, safer jobs, jobs that aren’t gonna risk her losing her last good eye, but those jobs don’t have the Duke of darn Detroit now do they? No, he won her over the minute he started scrapping his gators across the rug. But like hell she’s going to let him know that!

“What do you want me to do?” he asks. “I’ll give you my baby, my No. 1. She’s yours, all yours, Babs, just don’t leave. I can’t—“

He sniffles wetly.

“I can’t do this without you,” he admits. “I got a city to rule and I… I… I need your help.”

“That’s nice to hear,” she says in return.

She can hear him smile just to be acknowledged.

“Remember when,” she wants to say, “you were the Duke in name only and I wore those ugly flared skirts? Remember when you grew that scraggly mustache and I said, ‘Boss, that’d look better with a little… something extra?’”

“Boss,” she thinks, “Do remember the way you held my hand when the doc fixed my face? Because I still remember that.”

“I don’t want your baby,” she tells him, though he’d gladly hand the keys over to her forever. She drives it enough as it is and she doesn’t actually want to be the Duchess of Detroit. She breaks enough nails and gets enough burns and stitches as No. 2.

“You keep her,” she says. “Nobody could love her like you love her.”

He looks like she’s granted him his life’s solitary desire and maybe, in a way, she has. The Duke wouldn’t be the Duke without his No. 1 lady, his beast of a limousine. What’s an emperor without his grand chariot, after all?

Deluxe’s transport pods — that’s what they tore to pieces to make the Duke’s big baby, his pride and joy. Thing has got canons as broad as Cadillacs and she barked the orders to the grunts who built them. Had a bullhorn and everything.

And this… This tire-licking, ungrateful lug nut sat on his skinny butt and watched.

Still, she wouldn’t take those keys from his anymore than she’d actually quit.

“Babs,” he breathes. “What can I do to get you stay with me?”

“You can start with kissing my boots,” she offers.

Her gum has lost its flavor, so she pulls the half-empty pack out of her jacket pocket and unwraps a new stick. The old gum, with the texture of busted tires, goes in the wrapper and where she tosses it, right now, she doesn’t care.

Sugar explodes over her tongue and the Duke grins up at her with just one side of his mouth.

“And then you can work your way up,” she says around her fresh piece of gum.

He drops to his hands and behind the fall of his hair she can see his sharp nose pressing flat against the ankles of her boots.

How many have bowed like this before the Duke of Detroit and kissed the scales of his shoes? And never with as much enthusiasm as the Duke has for pressing his lips to the worn leather of her boots.

First his forehead, then his nose, then finally his lips brush her shin above the tops of her boots. His goatee brushes her skin so lightly, making her nerves prickle. His lips are warm, but his tongue is hot.

Every time she thinks she might shiver or moan or give him any hint of how much she enjoys this, she blows a bubble or squeezes her fist around her ruined fingernail.

“Babs,” he murmurs against the side of her knee. “You got legs like a stretched out… Ferrari.”

She hides her smile by chewing on her gum, sucking the sugar taste right out of it.

“How are they so, so darn long?” he asks her thighs.

“Don’t,” she says, when she sees the fur at his hips shiver like he’s messing with his belt.

“Oooh, girl, but you are cruel.”

“You bet,” she tells him. “Just like you, boss.”

“Baby girl,” he pleads against her inner thigh. “I’m not this cruel.”

“That’s what you think,” she tells him and she can feel him smiling against her skin.

He kisses up the past the hem of her shorts, but makes it quick. Then he presses his face between her legs, a blunt pressure against the ache of her arousal. No way she’s going to give him the satisfaction of rocking into his little nuzzling motions, but she does like it.

With one hand she reaches down towards him, not to undo her belt but to grabs him by his blond hair and jerks his head back, away from her.

“Why don’t we take this somewhere, y’know, private,” she tells him.

His keys jangle when he pulls them out of his pockets and keep up the noise as she drags him up to his feet by a fistful of his hair. She knows his hands are shaking and his knees are weak. That’s exactly what she wants.

She leads and he follows, gaining back his poise and grace with every step.

By the time he’s unlocking the driver’s side door, after they’ve climbed up to it, he’s almost got himself put back together, just as cocky as ever.

“So, Babs, looking for a bit of a ride,” he says, sliding into the long bench seat and throwing one leg up over the back. “I’m happy to provide.”

She is, in fact, a designer, chauffer, choreographer, master chef and MC, but those talents alone don’t get a girl by in Detroit — not Motorcity or Deluxe.

The Duke’s back hits the bench seat and slides, the material of his jacket slipping against the leather. Babs unbuckles her belt and slips it free without a single wasted motion. Falling more than tackling, she lands on top of the Duke and distracts him with a kiss. His tongue still holds the salt-taste of her skin, and she kisses him with a mouthful of sugar.

“I let you do that,” he says, tugging on his hands, now looped together with her belt.

The same curse that sends him calling for her when he’s dropped something down inside some monstrously extended engine will keep him nice and trussed up. Yes, she knows what they say about men with big hands. It’s all true.

“Sure you did,” she says, chewing her gum.

Getting her shorts off isn’t the easiest work, but she’s had a lot of practice. For a moment or two, she sits astride his chest and combs her hands through his hair, blond and brown, watching him look up at her and struggle. He draws his knees up and arches his back, trying to get her to slide just a little further down, but she won’t budge until she’s good and ready.

“Come on baby,” he begs. “I just wanna taste you. Let’s get it on with.”

“Excuse me,” she tells him. “But which of us is doing the other a favor?”

If only that shut him up.

For a while, she touches herself with one hand and strokes his face with the other. He watches her — Hell, she gives him a perfect view.

“Shit, Babs, you’re gorgeous. You’re perfect. Goddamn, if you were a car, you’d be better than this girl,” he babbles. “Bigger too.”

“You callin’ me fat?” she teases.

“No, no, no, definitely not,” he insists. “I’m just sayin’ you’re stacked like a Tokyo garage.”

She pulls her fingers out of her cunt and holds them out for him, just an inch from his lips. Lunging forward, he catches two fingers in his open mouth and sucks them clean. He groans, too.

“Love the way you taste, Babs,” he tells her, when she pulls her hand back.

“Good,” she replies, and moves up to settle her knees on either side of his head.

He kisses her, gently at first. The short cropped hair of his goatee brushes parts of her that feel naked in comparison. She keeps her breath as even as she can, but tucks her gum against the side of her cheek just in case. A good thing, because he swipes his tongue up between the lips of her cunt unexpectedly right after that. Caught off guard, she jerks her hips and hisses.

He laughs and mutters something she can’t understand — she shivers a little at the vibration of both. She grips his hair, tight, in both hands.

“Don’t mess around,” she says. “Remember, you’re trying to convince me a’ somethin’.”

He licks her again, and then again, finding her clit with the flat of his tongue and pressing up against it. After a while, he sucks her off and she tries not to squirm when his chin digs up into her.

“Oh, Duke,” she gasps, because she can’t help it.

Pleased, he hums one of his karaoke favorites and circles his tongue around her clit. He knows she favors the left side, loves hard pressure. Oh, he knows, and he gives. Let it never be said the Duke of Detroit isn’t generous — at least when someone’s twisting his arm.

Babs rocks her hips against his mouth, holding him by the hair. His name won’t leave her lips no matter how many times she says it. She needs him, needs to get off. And she’s got him and he’s getting her closer and closer.

“I’m gonna come,” she warns him. “And then I’m gonna… I swear on twenty limos, Duke, I’m gonna fuck you so hard.”

When she comes, Babs clenches her fists and tightens her jaw. Her mouth makes a firm line and, behind her shades, her eyes are screwed shut. For a moment, she can’t breathe and her calves shiver from strain.

Then, just as suddenly, she draws a huge breath and falls apart.

On shaky arms, she pushes herself up, and moves down the Duke’s body until she’s lying stretched out on top of him. She finds his mouth and tastes herself when she kisses him. He kisses back bitingly, pushing up against the weight of her holding him down.

“Babe, Babs, my sweet, saintly second, my number two, mon deux,” he says into her mouth.

She pushes up off his chest to find her lipstick in her jacket pocket and reapply it.

“Yes?” she asks.

“Did you mean it? Did you really, really mean it? Babs, tell me you meant it,” he says.

“Course I did, Boss,” she answers. “Would I lie to ya?”

With fresh lipstick, she kisses his cheek and then his neck. The marks smear and look more like dark, red bruises than lips. She likes it and makes quick work of pushing up his shirt and sucking real bruises along his collarbones and ribs to match the smears of her lipstick.

Holding his hips down with her body, she feels how hard he is for her and it makes her proud. Oh, she knows that plenty of Motorcitizens mistake the Duke of Detroit’s excesses for some kinda… How should she say it? Most people think he’s easy. But, no, the Duke can afford to cultivate sophisticated tastes and it pleases her to satisfy them.

Thinking of what she’ll do to him, as she unbuckles both his belts and starts pulling down his pants and peeling off his tight underwear, makes her ache with desire in places that are still freshly sore. Finally, she gets him down to just his alligator-skin loafers. Even his jacket and shirt are pushed up to around his wrists.

“I know I’m hot,” he says. “I can just tell you’re staring behind those pretty shades. You can’t take your eyes off me.”

She snorts with laughter and ties his ankles spread with his belts, leaving him plenty of give. Then she settles in between his thighs.

“So, are you going to get naked too?” he asks, grinning up at her when she reaches over him to open one of the dashboard compartments. On the first try, she opens the one with the grenades and wrinkles her nose with displeasure. Dumb mistake; she’s letting him get to her.

“No,” she tells him, and opens the lower compartment.

He purrs, a long, exaggerated growl, when he sees what she pulls out.

“Oh, Babs, you weren’t kidding around,” he says.

“I don’t kid,” she tells him.

She pulls the gum out of the side her mouth with her tongue. It tastes like lipstick and sex, empty of its own flavor. Her hands are full, so she swallows it.

The leather harness is, in a word, a bitch to get on. But she slips it on one leg at a time, tightening the straps around her thighs. The Duke calls her graceful and gorgeous and complains that he wants to run his hands up her legs. She buckle’s the harness belt closed around her hips and looks down at the contrast between her harness and accessories and his god-given gifts.

“Babs, please, I just wanna touch you,” he says.

Just when the angry edge comes into his voice, she slicks her fingers and runs one up the length of his cock. His hips jerk upwards, following her hand, and he shuts up.

He’s hard, but she wants him to ache. So she nudges his legs apart with her knees and gets him to tilt his hips by rubbing her knuckles against the skin behind his balls.

“Oh shit,” he groans. “Please.”

She slides one finger in and, finding that easy, another. He squirms and struggles, but she goes slow and offers only a fingertip brushing against the tip of his dick. The Duke thinks he deserves everything he wants, as soon as he wants it. But he can be made patient and pliant, by the right hand.

“Aren’t you hot?” he asks. “Because I’m naked and I’m sweating like a dog in August here.”

She knows what he wants and she won’t give it to him.

“Dogs don’t sweat, Boss,” she tells him. “They pant.”

“I’m doing that, too,” he counters. “Want me to bark? Come on, you’re making me your bitch, I’ll do it.”

He barks and howls until she says, “Want me to call you ‘Mutt,’ then?” as she slides a third finger into him.

“Oh, Babs,” he moans. “No, yes, please, I don’t know, just fuck me already, please, please, pretty please.”

But she holds off until she can fit all four fingers inside him easy and massages the head of his cock with her palm when he whines too much.

“You get me so wide open,” he says. “Nobody has your dedication, your damn patience. Oh Babs, please, just come on.”

She pushes inside him an inch at a time. Slow, but only at first. That sweet spot inside him needs to be found. Once she finds it, she needs to brace her knees and dig the toes of her boots into the seat.

“Oh Babs!” he shouts.

And there it is, she rocks back and then rolls her hips forward. He shakes.

As her thrusts get faster, harder, her legs slide out against the leather of the bench. Arms braced, she holds herself above him as long as she can. But that’s only so long.

“Yeah, baby, just like that,” Duke says, when she ends up pressed chest to chest with him.

She tucks her face into the space between his raised arm and his neck and bites him, hard. It’s almost satisfying to hear him squeal.

Her hips hit the backs of his thighs and his cock rubs slick against her belly, up under her shirt. Whatever sensitive spots she finds, she bites. After so many small touches and drawn out teasing, a part of her feels deeply satisfied by this kind of violence.

It also gets her off, in a slow, small way — the push and pull of the harness, the friction of skin and clothing, not to mention the heat. She feels a pleasant ache inside her as she fucks him breathless.

Reduced to curses and pretty words, then only her name, and finally nothing more than sounds, the Duke of Detroit falls apart beneath her. Sweat rolls down the back of her neck and she tastes salt on her teeth from his skin. He starts to struggle, and she just drives into him harder.

She reaches down and digs her nails into the meat of his thigh. Her teeth find the edge of his jaw and scrape against it. All that and one last, hard thrust is apparently all he needs, because wetness spills between them, soaking her shirt up to her breasts. In retrospect, maybe she should have taken it off.

She thrusts a few more times just to hear the overwhelmed, half-pained sounds Duke makes.

“Please, no more,” he says, voice thin.

She kisses his cheek and carefully pushes herself up, off of him and then out. Her muscles ache more, but in good ways now. Ways that make the throbbing pain from her torn off fingernail seem small, petty, inconsequential.

“I’d never quit, boss,” Babs says.

He doesn’t reply, but manages to muster up a weak smile. Starting at his feet, she undoes the belts one by one. When she fishes her shorts out from where they’ve fallen beneath the bench seat, she makes sure to bring up the rest of the Duke’s clothes. Not that he’s bothered even pulling down his shirt and jacket, they still sit bunched up around his forearms.

“Back in a minute,” she tells him, kissing his cheek again.

She pulls on her shorts, winching a bit at everything that hurts, and then climbs over the driver’s window and into the body of the Duke’s biggest lady, his No. 1. Babs makes a beeline for the fridge and snags a cola for herself and a beer for the Duke. Next chance they get, she thinks, they need to steal some pallets of bottled water from Deluxe. She reaches through the window and sets the soda and the beer on the dash before climbing back through.

Duke hasn’t moved much, though he’s at least pulled his shirt and jacket down. She helps him sit up with a hand around his wrist. His hands still shake while he pulls on his underwear and pants, but that’s not unusual in her experience.

She leans against him and hands off the beer.

“Was it good for you too?” she asks and he makes some garbled reply into the mouth of the bottle.

The limousine is their queen, No. 1, the biggest, meanest thing on the streets of anyone’s interpretation of Detroit. Then there’s the Duke and all his ladies, and all his ladies’ drivers. But Babs wraps her arm around the Duke’s shoulders and drinks her sticky sweet soda knowing who stands beside the Duke’s throne.

No, she’d never quit.

When her soda’s halfway gone and the Duke’s hands stop shaking, she finally pulls off her jacket and strips out of her soiled shirt. The jacket comes back on and she fishes her gum out of the inside pocket before she closes it tight. Her lower stomach ends up bare, but she’s looked worse.

“Gum?” she asks, holding out her pack.

“Sure thing, babe,” he says, and she smiles just the tiniest bit at the exhaustion in his voice.


End file.
